


was it blindness or darkness, peril, confusion?

by henryclerval



Category: inFAMOUS (Video Games), inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Drabble, Emotional Baggage, F/F, Femslash, Pre-Game(s), Stream of Consciousness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail had been a sorry sack of shit when she was first brought in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	was it blindness or darkness, peril, confusion?

Abigail had been a sorry sack of shit when she was first brought in. 

Bags under her eyes, shaking and stuttering—if she even bothered to talk, which was nothing but obscenities between wails—there had not been much to her. A fiery burst of pink on top of an empty eggshell, ready to completely crumble at any given moment. 

And Augustine—Augustine had been at this for long enough to be able to sort through conduits without much thought. Every conduit was unique, every conduit deserved to live, but some were more gifted than others. Abigail, with her makeup smeared and faded, did not quite fit the bill. A drug addict, a mourning younger sibling, an inch away from a panic attack that will be her last—and yet, and yet—

When she looked at Augustine it was nothing but red-hot fury, smoldering and sparking and ready to burst. 

It sent something up and down Augustine’s spine—unidentifiable, and it would remain alien, a sensation without a name for a long while. It stayed mislabeled as adrenaline, as the rush of finding a worthy apprentice, the fire in Abigail’s belly infectious and addictive. She could tell that Abigail wanted to show off her powers just as bad as she wanted to see them. It had been so long since she’d been genuinely impressed; a warm, bright feeling curling up in her throat to her ears whenever Abigail poked out of that useless eggshell of hers. 

There was only once when _Abigail_ replaced _Miss Walker_ aloud, and if Abigail noticed then she didn’t say a word for the first time in her life. It kept Augustine annoyed for hours. Allowing herself to show familiarity was the first step in the entire operation coming down around them—and as much as she found herself thinking otherwise, Abigail was a prisoner. There was little room for nicknames, for the foreign feeling blooming in her chest. 

And it grew like a horrible, alien virus. It caused Augustine grief and irritation as she kept catching herself smiling—genuinely, truly, the awful instinct that she thought died with Celia—when Abigail succeeded, when she grew, when she let her confidence and ability shine through all the fear. 

It was much easier to compartmentalize it as she had done a thousand times before. When she wanted to spend more time with Abigail—outside of training, outside of briefing—something hard rumbled through her chest. An ache she wanted to physically rip out of her body wouldn’t cease, and she hated herself for letting Abigail’s various pouting and arguing actually change her schedule at Curden Cay—slightly more breaks during training, another blanket in her cell, changing the start time to a half an hour later to allow Abigail to sleep in. 

Augustine worried her favoritism would show. That somehow, someone would pick up on these massive gestures of goodwill toward one of the newer recruits, and be able to identify just what disease has lodged itself in her body. And yet. 

And yet. 

The tests dwindled and the discussions increased. At one point, Augustine touched her knee. It was thrilling, awful, the worst experience that Augustine has ever gone through in her entire life. The next day she touched Abigail’s other knee, just to make sure that it wasn’t a matter of left versus right. It was just as bad, if not worse, because Abigail didn’t flinch away as noticeably that time. Even through her leather gloves, Augustine could feel warmth of life. 

She was a pillar of discipline, of self-control, and was pleased that she could stop this bad habit right as it started. Her arms folded behind her back seemed to do the trick—despite it being horrible for defense, and Abigail never seemed to take that advantage. 

A poor decision. 

Had their roles been reversed, Augustine would not have hesitated. 

Though, when she was honest with herself—which she always was—she suddenly couldn’t easily imagine doing that kind of harm to Abigail.


End file.
